THE  TOWNSHIP  LINE 


Albert  Frederick  Wilson 


'f, 


^fe> 


THE   TOWNSHIP   LINE  1? 


*>F  CAUF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELED 


THE    TOWNSHIP    LINE 

New  England  Narratives 

By 
ALBERT  FREDERICK  WILSON 


Harper  &  Brothers  Publishers 
New  York  and  London 


THE  TOWNSHIP  LINE 


Copyright,  1919.  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  October,  1919 

t-T 


To  R.  D.  W. 


Men  cannot  sing  my  tunes 

Because,  they  say, 

I  have  no  tunes  to  sing — 

Not  if  counting  off 

The  run  of  fives  and  eights 

Is  any  test. 

They  do  not  know 

The  kind  of  song 

I  try  to  bring  to  you. 

Yet  if  they  had 
My  tuning-fork, 
And  knew  the  trick — 
Just  where  to  strike  the  tines- 
Just  how  to  catch  the  key — 

They'd  find  my  tune 
In  every  little  portion 
Of  this  book. 


2133957 


CONTENTS  'g. 

PAGE 

BARN  FIRE! 3 

THE  BAPTIST  CHURCH   .        .        .        .        .  10 
THE  SOUTH  PASTURE  LOT    .        .        .        .14 

THREE  MEN  SPEAK 18 

PLOWS 22 

STREET  LAMPS 28 

SOWING  THE  WINTER  RYE          ...  35 

WORDS  IN  PREFACE 42 

SIGNS 47 

BOGWATER 53 

THE  TABLE  WITH  THE  BANDY  LEGS      .  58 

WAITING  FOR  THE  REAL-ESTATE  MAN  .  63 

GRAVESTONES 71 

LILAC-TIME .73 

HAUNTED  HOUSES 76 

DOOR-STEPS         .......  77 

I  AM  A  TINKER 78 

PEAS  PORRIDGE  HOT 82 

THE  ELEVEN  FORTY-FIVE  IS  LATE   .  84 


THE   TOWNSHIP   LINE 


BARN  FIRE! 

BARNS  burn  up  on  windy  nights. 

Some  one  forgets  the  lantern 

In  the  stall,  or  the  draught 

Catches  the  sparks  from  a  pipe. 

We  put  our  corncobs  aside 

When  we  go  to  water — 

Just  inside  the  door  on 

The  joisting — brush  aside  the 

Hay  dust  with  our  thumbs 

And  keep  that  place  for  the  pipe; 

But  we  stick  it  back 

Between  our  teeth  before 

We  slide  the  door  again. 

We  do  not  see  the  sparks  that  fly. 

We  close  the  door  and  latch  it  tight — 

The  fire  has  a  good  start. 

Then  the  warm  glow 
On  the  sky-line; 
The  drowsy  farm  lands  stir, 
Sit  bolt  upright  with 
The  fire  fear  in  their  eyes. 
Roosters  crow,  tumbling  from 
Their  roosts  to  announce  the  false  dawn. 
Then  comes  the  sound  of  men's  feet 
Hurrying  down  the  country  road; 
Lumbering,  heavy-footed  farm  horses, 
With  blankets  roped  about  their  backs 
[31 


And  the  wind  through  their  manes, 
Are  silhouetted  along  the  stone  wall, 
Animated  wooden  hobby-horses. 

We  run  to  the  doors  to  sweep  our  eyes 

Around  the  circle  to  find 

The  red-hot  spot 

With  the  sparks  shooting 

Into  the  night, 

And  we  say, 

"That  must  be  Williams's  house, 

Or  Craig's  barn,  or  the  school-house, 

Or  the  wagon-shop — " 

But  our  guess  of  a  mile 

Is  always  three. 

Up  and  down  across  the  hills 

We  guess  as  we  go, 

A  hay-barn  by  the  way 

The  sparks  fly, 

And  haying-time  just  over, 

And  hay  selling  for 

Thirty  dollars  a  ton. 

It  is  strange  how  an  old  barn 
That  no  one  pays  any  attention  to 
For  fifty  years,  except  to  patch 
The  roof  and  stuff  hay  into  it — 
A  dead  shell  with  a  cow-stall  or  two, 
And  a  bed  for  the  old  horses — 
Can  scorch  itself  into  the  night, 
[4] 


So  that  every  living  thing 
Stirs  and  wakes  and  turns 
Its  wide  eyes. 

A  flaming  black  hulk 
There  on  its  little  hill, 
With  the  red  life  through  its  roof 
And  its  doors  and  its  windows: 
Crushing,  expanding,  tearing — 
Whirling  the  dead  hulk  into 
A  chaos  of  energy;   conscious 
Of  its  mighty  moment — 
Radiant  from  a  coal  lit  by 
The  first  torch. 

The  little  gray  barn 
That  nobody  noticed 
Making  men  run 
And  curse 
And  pray 
And  wonder 
About  the  hand 
Of  the  Lord  God. 

"Who  said  His  name?" 
Stammered  a  little  bowlegged  man 
In  a  white  cotton  shirt 
At  my  elbow. 
"There  ain't  any — 
There  ain't  any  God," 

[51 


He  spat,  his  throat  dry 

With  the  blasphemy. 

I  knew  him — 

Jared  Turnbull. 

He  owned  the  barn. 

He'd  lost  his  wife  from  the  typhoid 

In  the  well  the  year  before, 

And  now  he  stood  there  with 

The  rest  of  us — looking  on. 

When  he  had  gone, 

Muttering  the  damned  words 

Over  and  over  to  keep  the  taste 

Of  something  sweet  from  slipping 

From  his  tongue,  the  old  woman 

In  the  horse-blanket  leaned 

To  my  shoulder. 

"He's  beside  himself," 

She  said.     "It '11  be  more  than 

A  year  before  he  understands." 

And  then  from  her  cupped  hands: 

"Some  folks  say  he  won't  never. 

Maybe  he's  committed  the  Unforgivable." 

Relayed  from  the  creaking  well-chains 
Came  the  cry,  "The  well's  gone  dry." 

The  white  horse  tied  to  the  cherry-tree 
Neighed  through  an  old  throat — 

[6] 


Much  too  old,  querulous,  despondent 
Of  men  and  things. 

Such  voices  ought  to  be  silenced — 
They  commit  a  mischief. 

Then  the  roof  fell  in. 

The  unseen  hand  of  gravity 

Reached  up,  releasing  what  was  left 

Of  the  red  flame  in  the  rotten  timbers. 

And  at  that  last  power  men  stood  dumb 

With  the  old  futile  awe  upon  their  faces. 

So  the  consuming  flame 
Brought  out  those  country  faces, 
Set  them  like  a  magic-lantern  show 
Against  the  black  curtain  of  the  night — 
Man  and  woman  of  New  England. 

The  hollow  cheeks — 

Toothless  or  with  projecting  rims 

Of  cheap  dental  parlors — 

Eyes  blanked  by  the  township  line — 

Shoulders  pulled  by  a  one-horse  plow. 

The  tag  end  of  the  tag  end 
Of  the  strong  that  went 
East  and  west  when  the  patient, 
Long-suffering  New  England  hills 
Began  to  spume  poverty. 
[7] 


And  I  thought  of  my  old  portraits 
Of  Connecticut  "men  and  women, 
Those  who  first  fenced  these  meadows 
And  reared  the  timbers  of  that  barn 
And  built  the  Baptist  church.  .  .  . 

On  the  way  home 

The  county  attorney 

Asked  for  a  lift. 

"Not  a  cent  of  insurance — 

A  shiftless  lot"; 

He  condemned  with  the 

Straight  arrow  of  Youth. 

"They  work  so  hard,"  I  said. 
"Night  and  morning  they  are  at  it, 
Faithful  to  the  last  strength." 

He  said,  "Their  fields  are  old  women. 
No  man  can  breed  with  them." 

I  said,  "We  are  no  better, 

We  do  not  speak  out — 

We  do  not  tell  the  truth 

About  New  England; 

We  love  it  beyond  stark  eyes." 

But  he  went  back  to  the  circle: 
"  A  shiftless  lot- 
But  I  like  them  for  jurymen — 

[8] 


Always  choose  them  when 
The  case  is  one  of  j-u-s-t-i-c-e ! 
They'll  give  a  man  his  due — 
Lean  over  backwards  to  do  it — 
They  can  get  their  teeth 
Into  a  man's  rights. 

"Just  a  plain  statement  of  the  facts- 
No  oratory  of  New  York  lawyers 
Can  fool  them  when  somebody 
Is  trying  to  take  something 
Away  from  somebody  that 
He  ought  not  to  have." 

I'm  glad  that  I  picked  up 
The  attorney  on  the  way  home 
From  Turnbull's  fire. 
2 


THE  BAPTIST  CHURCH 

THEY  are  making  the  old  Baptist  church 

Into  a  moving-picture  show. 

A  man  by  the  name  of  Levy  bought  it. 

It  wasn't  much  of  a  church 

With  its  low-ceiling  room 

And  its  tiny  white  steeple 

Sticking  up  from  a  little  green  hill. 

Connecticut  is  full  of  them 
Or  used  to  be,  when  the 
Crossroads  stopped  men's  footsteps 
Before  the  sign-posts  pointed 
To  ten  thousand  miles. 

My  great-grandfather  helped 

To  build  that  church. 

,It  has  stood  by  the  country  road 

A  hundred  years  or  more. 

He  climbed  the  steeple  box 

When  it  was  done 

And  stood  there  on  his  head. 

Every  neighbor  did  his  part 
With  the  tools  at  his  hands: 
Oak  timber  from  Peck's  wood; 
Nathan  Post  with  his  three  song — 
Boss  carpenters  every  one; 
Noah  Hepburn,  teacher  and  surveyor; 
[10] 


Noag  Reynolds,  stone-mason; 
Philip  Winslow,  with  the  best 
Four-horse  team  in  town. 

And  the  women  made  the  rag-carpet 
Down  the  aisle;  and  the  linen  cloth 
For  the  communion  service; 
And  they  swept  on  Fridays — 
Washed  the  windows  of  God's  house- 
Kept  them  clean,  women's  hands — 
Eager  to  the  Lord  God 
From  the  churn  and  the  brick  oven 
And  the  constant  doing  of  things 
For  little  children. 

The  little  old  Baptist  church: 
They  are  making  it  over 
Into  a  moving-picture  show. 
The  little  old  worn-out  room 
With  its  straight-back  pews: 
From  the  days  when  men  leaned 
Forward  to  the  voice  of  God. 

Those  men — 
And  their  sons? 
They  are  everywhere  to-day, 
Even  here,  in  Connecticut. 
They  have  come  back 
To  the  old  places;  some  of  them 
111] 


Bought  up  the  barren  meadowi 
And  the  pasture  lands; 
Some  have  Italian  Gardens 
In  New  England. 

And  one  man  brings  the  robe, 
And  one  man  runs  the  bath, 
And  one  man  lays  the  clothes, 
And  one  man  brings  the  mail, 
In  New  England. 

"Drive  only  the  roads 
That  are  smooth  and  even; 
There  are  extra  cylinder* 
For  extra  hills" — 
Oh,  the  lungs  of  iron 
And  the  hearts  of  steel 
In  New  England. 

And  the  little  old  Baptist  church — 
All  day  long  I  have  been  watching 
The  old  negro — splitting  up 
The  pulpit  into  kindling  wood — 

And  I  think 
Of  the  growing  lands 
Keeping  men  to  growing  things; 
Clod,  rock  and  manure 
[121 


Broken  by  men's  hands 
Into  New  England. 

Oh,  I  don't  so  much  blame  Levy. 
He  goes  to  his  own  church 
Every  Saturday  morning. 


THE  SOUTH  PASTURE  LOT 

JOHN  TODD  has  sold 

The  old  South  Pasture  Lot. 

The  worn-out  apple-trees 

Go  with  it,  and  the  raspberry-patch. 

John  held  on  to  it 

As  long  as  he  could — 

Kept  making  excuses  to  save  it. 

But  it  wasn't  worth  anything — 

No  more  than  he  was. 

But  it  was  all  he  had — 

All  there  was  left 

Of  the  Todd  grant 

Running  back  five  miles 

From  Long  Island  Sound — 

All  except  the  house  and  dooryard. 

He  came  over  to  sit  on  my  door-step: 

What  would  I  do? 

"A  man  couldn't  live 

With  just  a  dooryard — 

But  then  the  pasture  lot 

Didn't  make  a  farm. 

And  the  money  would  patch 

Up  the  house  and  keep  those 

Mortgage-lenders  about  their  business." 

It  wasn't  as  though  he 
Could  grow  anything  on  the  lot. 
[14] 


"It  won't  have  to  work  any  more — 
That's  one  thing;  Brewster  '11  let 
It  guzzle  in  rich  manure — 
Stuff  it  up  like  a  fat  goose — 
Better  off  than  me  in  that  respect. 

"But  then  that's  just 

What  I  object  to — 

Treating  his  pastures  like  himself. 

You  know  what  he's  up  to — 

Bound  to  have  five  hundred  acres — 

And  everything  he  touches 

Stops  working. 

"You  take  that  stone  wall. 

My  grandfather  built  it 

With  his  own  hands — 

Picked  the  stone  from  the  field 

Thirty  days  to  the  acre — 

And  carted  them  there. 

He  made  the  wall 

And  the  wall  made — 

Well,  one  of  his  sons 

Was  a  college  professor. 

"That  old  wall's  got  the  makings 
Of  a  lot  more  good  men 
If  they'd  only  leave  it  alone. 
It  '11  make  these  I-talians,  maybe — 
I  know  what  you're  thinking — 
[15] 


'Didn't  make  me,'  you're  saying — 
I  can  tell  by  the  way  your  lips  move. 
But  what  kind  of  an  argument  is  that? 

"My  grandfather  wouldn't  like 
To  see  it  go  to  a  man  like  Brewster. 
He  didn't  get  along  none  too  well 
With  Brewster's  old  man  when  he 
Was  as  poor  as  Job's  turkey 
And  carrying  swill  for  us. 

"That's  the  trouble  with  Brewster. 
He  won't  let  the  wall  stay  natural 
Like  a  man's  beard,  with  the  gravy 
And  the  tobacco  falling — just  so — 
He'll  have  a  stone-mason  over  here 
Within  the  week — you  know  that. 
Stone  walls  ain't  the  same  when 
You  trim  them  up  and  plaster  them. 
The  Lord  knocks  down  walls 
For  you  and  me  to  pick  up  again. 
There  ain't  a  wall  between  here 
And  Berswick  you  can  work  on. 

"These  city  New-Englanders 

With  their  ancestor  worship — 

Plain  idolatry,  I  call  it — 

Come  back  and  buy  up  my  pasture  lot 

And  yours;  strip  off  their  overalls 

And  dress  them  up  for  Sunday-school 

[16] 


With  perfumery  on  their  handkerchiefs. 
What  I  want  to  know  is 
How  about  my  ancestors? 

"It  '11  grow  to  look  like  him 
Instead  of  me — you  know  that. 
Fields  have  a  way  of  doing  that. 
And  it's  what  I  can't  stand — 
Having  it  right  there 
Next  to  my  windows — 
When  things  stop  working 
They  don't  look  like  New  England. 

"I  guess  our  stock's  run  out — 

Something  Scriptural  about  it,  maybe. 

But  Brewster — he's  offering 

Ten  times  what  it's  worth. 

And  I  can't  sleep  nights, 

And  a  pasture  lot  don't  make  a  farm, 

And— 

"How  much  did  Phil  Ward 
Say  he  paid  for  that  little 
Second-hand  automobile?" 


THREE  MEN  SPEAK 

THE  first  said: 

"There  is  something  that  goes 

With  being  young. 

I  do  not  know, 

I  cannot  understand  it, 

Nor  you,  for  that  matter. 

But  it's  the  explanation 

If  you  can  explain  such  things 

With  plus  and  minus  signs,  just  so! 

"Here's  a  fellow  says 

He  carries  me  upon  his  back, 

Because  I  work  my  head 

And  he  works  his  hands. 

I  use  his  back 

And  he  uses  my  eyes — 

That's  fair  enough  for  anybody. 

But  he  won't  have  it  that  way. 

He  won't  call  that  Brotherhood. 

He  doesn't  like  what  my  eyes  see. 

And  he  says  he's  tired 

Toting  me  around. 

"I  say  that  he  must  be  very  old 
Whining  around  like  that 
About  his  share  of  the  work. 
I  didn't  make  him  blind, 
Nor  me  halt,  for  that  matter. 
[18] 


I  don't  know  how  we're  ever 
Going  to  get  along  without 
His  back  and  my  eyes. 

"I  don't  call  his  back 
Very  easy  riding,  either, 
When  it  comes  to  that. 

"The  trouble  is 

There's  too  much  comes  upon  a  man 
All  at  once,  when  he  is  growing  old — 
Makes  him  sour  about  his  rights. 
That's  where  all  this  talk  comes  from. 
You'd  think  a  man  would  know 
Something  about  Brotherhood  by  the  time 
He  was  seventy,  more  or  less! 

"But  it  doesn't  work  that  way. 

Maybe  it's  because 

There  isn't  any  such  thing. 

Maybe  it's  just  another 

One  of  those  things 

Being  young  does  to  you, 

With  a  ribbon  and  a  fiddle. 

"What's  the  use  of  pretending? 
We  old  fellows  know  how  to  skin  a  skunk, 
And  make  the  best  of  it,  too* 
If  we  aren't  too  old." 
[19] 


The  second  said: 

"It  isn't  being  young 

That  has  anything  to  do  with  it. 

It's  just  another  way  to  get  a  dollar. 

They  tried  it  out  single 

And  now  they're  trying  it  double, 

Running  it  down  with  the  pack 

And  calling  it  Brotherhood. 

"Sometimes  I  think  it's  like 
A  shell  game  at  the  fair — 
Promising  something  you  don't  see 
For  something  you  think  you  see. 
You  might  better  have  spent  it 
For  pink  lemonade,  or  saved  it 
For  a  gas-engine  for  the  old  woman. 

"You've  put  it  in  your  copy-book 
A  hundred  times  or  more — 
And  so  have  I — 
'You  can't  make  something 
Out  of  nothing!' 
But  what's  the  use 
Of  quoting  the  schoolmaster? 
What's  he  know  about  things? 
Sitting  there  at  his  desk 
With  a  twelve-inch  rule! 
You  can  see  the  pea 
With  your  own  eyes — 
And  things  have  changed,  anyway. 
[20] 


"That  fellow  with  the  walnut  shell — 
He's  my  idea  of  Brotherhood!" 

And  the  third  said: 

"I  know  what  it  is, 

But  I  won't  tell 

Because  you  aren't  up  to  it." 

So  the  first 

Looked  across  at  him  and  said: 

"You're  too  young  to  know." 

And  the  second  said: 
"You're  much  too  old." 

But  he  said: 
"I  am  neither. 
I'm  you!" 


PLOWS 


A  QUIET  little  man, 
A  member  of  the  Academy 
They  said,  with  pictures 
In  the  museum  at  Boston. 

I  remember  how  he  looked 
Standing  there  in  the  hall 
Over  Cort's  hardware-store — 
His  thin,  quick-scenting  nostrils- 
The  deep  black  eyes  that  kept 
Looking  through  things 
And  under  things 
And  in  between  things 
For  something  he  called: 
"The  human  equation." 

I  was  younger  then. 

If  a  man  were  sick 

I  thought  he  could  be  cured 

By  a  doctor  with  a 

Little,  simple  pill 

That  could  be  taken 

With  a  glass  of  water. 

So  much  of  this 
And  so  much  of  that 
And  a  drop  from  the  bottle 
On  the  high  shelf. 
[22J 


This  for  the  liver 

And  this  for  the  bladder 

And  this  for  the  good  of  the  stomach. 

(So  I  have  stood 

In  the  flickering  light 

Of  the  cart-tail  medicine  man 

With  the  walnut  stain  on  his  face, 

And  the  red  feather  in  his  black  wig, 

And  the  tobacco  drip 

Washing  the  paste  diamond 

On  his  white  shirt-front — 

So  I  have  stood 

Watching  him  with  his  broken  crucible 

Mixing,  while  I  waited, 

The  "Bitters"  for  my  malady. 

A  leaf  from  the  dried  dandelion, 
A  root  from  the  snake-vine, 
A  berry  from  a  secret  place.) 

I  was  younger  then, 
And  so  was  he, 
The  man  with  the  pictures 
In  the  museum  at  Boston. 
He  did  not  have  a  feather 
In  his  hair,  nor  walnut  stain 
Upon  his  face, 

Nor  a  berry  from  a  secret  place, 
Although  he  had  brought 
[23] 


A  crucible  of  his  own 

And  he  was  mixing  "Bitters" 

For  a  great  Plague. 

He  was  no  faker 

With  a  nigger  playing  the  banjo 

And  a  bass-drum  with  his  toes. 

He  had  smeared  the  red  corpuscle* 

Upon  a  glass  slide, 

And  screwed  his  microscope 

Close  to  the  swarming  mess 

And  there  he  had  found 

The  suspected  infection — 

A  myriad  host — 

Cog,  Bolt,  and  Lever, 

Nut,  Spring,  and  Valve, 

Screw,  Chain,  and  Bearing — 

Fastening  their  myriad  tentacles 

To  the  red  cheeks  of  a  man's  soul. 

Then  he  told  us 
About  a  man 
He  had  seen 
In  a  fertile  valley 
Beside  the  Mediterranean 
Who  was  sitting 
Beneath  the  shade 
Of  an  olive-tree 
Making  a  plow 
From  a  crooked  stick. 
1*4] 


Himself,  his  wages, 

And  his  hours, 

His  four  walls 

The  hills  of  morning. 

His  time-clock 

The  silent  day 

Sifting  through  his  fingers. 

Making  all  the  plow, 
And  while  making  it 
In  his  eyes 

The  turn  of  the  red  earth 
And  between  his  bare  toes 
The  feel  of  the  cool  clod — 
The  smell  of  the  rain 
In  the  wind. 

So  Art  into  labor, 

And  labor  into  contentment, 

And  contentment  into  happiness, 

And  happiness  into  the  making 

Of  a  man's  soul. 

"A  man's  soul!" 

How  the  quiet  little  man  shuddered! 

It  reminded  him 
Of  a  factory  he  had  seen — 
A  monstrous  thing  of  brick  and  steel 
Covering  ten  city  blocks — 
A  whirling,  shrieking,  stinking  madness. 
[85] 


And  the  green,  yellow  smoke 
From  the  chimneys,  shutting  out 
The  sun  from  the  row  of  plain 
Little  houses  down  the  street; 
With  their  stoops  all  alike, 
And  their  front  windows  all  alike, 
And  their  back  yards  all  alike, 
And  their  wash-pulley  poles  all  alike. 

Five  thousand  men 

Standing  in  the  green  and  yellow  murk, 
Bound  wrist  and  ankle  to  a  machine, 
Putty-faced  men  waiting  listlessly 
For  the  shrill  knife  of  the  whistle 
To  cut  them  free. 

Five  thousand  men — 

Putty-faced  men — 

Doing  a  mean  little  part 

Of  a  mean  little  job 

In  a  mean  little  sort  of  a  way, 

According  to  a  formula 

Worked  out  by  a  college  professor. 

They  were  making 

The  great  American  steam-plow! 

To-day, 

There  in  the  North  River, 

Five  silent  ships 

[26] 


Slipped  down  with 
The  run  of  the  tide. 
No  flags  were  flying. 
No  whistles  were  blowing. 
No  bells  were  ringing. 

So  I  said 

To  the  man  who  knew: 
"Where  are  they  going? 
And  what  do  they  carry? 
And  why  do  they  hurry  so?" 

I  found 

That  they  were 

Taking  wheat — 

Ten  thousand  times 

Ten  thousand  famine  bushels 

To  the  man 

Who  had  been  sitting 

Beneath  the  shade 

Of  the  olive-tree, 

Making  a  plow 

From  a  crooked  stick. 


STREET   LAMPS 

ON  city  streets 
When  night  comes, 
You  can  hear  the  purr 
Of  the  many  wings 
Toward  the  many  lights. 

It  is  an  old  conceit 
Of  the  candle, 
That  men  come  to  it 
Leg  weary  with  the  sun. 

So  with  street  lamps. 

I  heard  his  voice 

Through  the  warm  spring  night 

Before  I  saw  his  face, 

And  the  little  crowd  about  him 

On  the  street  corner. 

He  was  a  singed  little  man 
Selling  pamphlets  for  ten  cents 
Which  taught  you  how  to  make 
A  President  of  your  child. 

"Breed  your  young 
As  you  breed  your  cattle. 
For  ten  cents,  this  book 
[28] 


Will  tell  you  how  to  rear 

Your  children  with  characters 

Like  Abraham  Lincoln's — 

The  science  of  Eugenics — 

Make  children  like  you  make  prize  hogs- 

For  ten  cents — " 

I  bought  a  copy  of  his  book, 
But  before  I  could  put  it 
In  my  pocket,  a  hand  tip-tapped 
Upon  my  shoulder. 

"Do  you  believe 

What  he  says,  neighbor?" 

He  was  a  plain  fellow 

With  a  stoop  to  his  shoulders 

And  New  England  across  his  forehead, 

And  around  his  eyes  and  mouth — 

If  he  had  been  older, 

I  'should  have  called  him 

"Mr.  Emerson." 

I  said: 

"I  should  like  to  have 

Blue-ribbon  children." 

We  sat  down  on  the  park  bench. 
He  said: 

"I  would  not  buy  his  book 
Because  it  is  blasphemous. 


We  cannot  regulate  such  things — 

We  do  not  know  where  we  are  bound — 

How  can  we  draw  a  chart?" 

"But  the  prize  hogs?"  I  said. 

"We  know  that  much. 

We  can  figure  on  the  pork  and  bacon — 

So  much  for  so  much." 

But  he  shook  his  head. 

"I  am  a  New-Englander.     He  said: 

For  seven  generations  my  people 

Run  back  to  the  days  of  the  colonies 

And  the  royal  grants 

And  the  Puritan  strain. 

They  have  been  schoolmasters, 

Traders  with  the  West  Indies — 

One  preacher  there  was, 

And  a  blacksmith, 

And  several  farmers. 

"But  preacher  and  teacher  and  'smith 

They  kept  close  to  the  land — 

They  stood  ankle  deep  in  it — 

For  two  hundred  years — 

For  two  hundred  years — 

So  that  their  toes 

Were  always  tangled 

In  the  roots  of  the  grass. 

[30] 


"They  were  men 

With  a  heft  to  their  heads — 

Stone-wall  men — 

Oi  that  day  and  generation. 

"I  do  not  know 
What  it  is 

That  makes  a  stone-wall  man, 
But  it  has  something  to  do 
With  picking  up  stones  in  a  field 
And  building  them  into  a  wall 
So  that  things  may  grow 
Where  the  Lord  put  the  stone, 
And  so  that  things  may  stay 
Where  man  put  the  wall. 

"We  have  the  old  house  still 
With  a  bit  of  the  land 
Up  in  Connecticut. 
But  that's  about  all 
There  is  to  it. 

"I've  been  a  ribbon  clerk 
For  fifteen  years. 

"You  see,  there  is  where 
I  have  a  quarrel  with  that  fellow. 
It  takes  seven  generations — and  more 
Of  stone-wall  men 
To  make  a  ribbon  clerk. 
[31] 


"Is  that  what  New  England 

Has  been  about? 

Jonathan  Edwards,  Wendell  Phillips, 

Thoreau,  Ephraim  Williams,  Mr.  Whittier? 

A  ribbon  clerk? 

"I  thought  I  knew  New  England 
When  I  saw  it. 

Jane  Addams,  and  Ida  Tarbell, 
And  Lincoln  Steffens,  and 
Roosevelt,  though  he  was  Dutch, 
And  Wilson,  born  in  Virginia, 
And  this  fellow  Brandeis — 
They  say  he's  a  Jew — 
They're  all  New  England. 

"I've  been  trying 
To  figure  it  for  fifteen  years, 
Off  and  on,  whenever  I  could 
Be  alone,  I'd  be  asking  myself, 
'What's  it  all  about?' 

"I'm  just  as  much  New  England 

As  they  are,  and  more,  for  that  matter. 

It's  here  in  my  bones, 

And  deeper  than  that,  sometimes. 

"I'm  part  of  them, 
Bone  and  flesh. 
I  read  about  them 

ls*J 


In  the  papers  and  magazines, 
And  up  there  in  my  room, 
I  can  hear  them 
Talking  back  and  forth- 
New  England  talk! 

"But  they  won't  listen 
When  I  join  in. 
I  can  see  they  think 
I  am  a  stranger. 

"They  don't  seem  to  recognize 
That  my  kind  of  talk 
Is  New  England,  too. 

"Just  like  what  I  read 

A  fellow  wrote  the  other  day 

In  a  weekly  paper. 

He  said  the  world  was  through 

With  New  England — the  one 

You  and  I  are  talking  about. 

"He  said  Puritan  traditions 
Were  worn-out  crutches, 
And  we  couldn't  expect 
To  bolster  up  a  limping  world 
With  them  any  more. 

"I  don't  know 
What  he's  talking  about 
[331 


But  I  guess  he  does. 
Because  folks  wrote 
Letters  to  the  paper 
And  told  him  he  was  right. 

"Sometimes  I  think 
Maybe  they  meant  me. 

"That's  why  I  say, 
There's  nothing  to 
That  fellow's  talk. 

"His  book  won't  tell  you 
That  it  takes  a  preacher, 
Three  schoolmasters,  and  a  'smith 
To  make  a  ribbon  clerk." 


SOWING  THE  WINTER  RYE 

DWIGHT  cleaned  the  scruff 

From  the  wood-hill  lot 

And  said:    "Now  it's  got  to  work 

The  same  as  the  rest  of  us. 

A  hill  that's  only  good  for  scenery 

Isn't  good  for  much. 

Unless  maybe  it  might 

Make  a  sizable  burying-lot — 

"But  we  don't  do  that  any  more. 

When  you  have  it  that  near 

It's  always  reminding. 

I  wouldn't  care  so  much 

The  rest  of  the  year, 

But  there's  something  about 

November  reminding  I  don't  like. 

With  fields  as  spare  as  mine 

It  isn't  natural  for  a  man 

To  have  it  that  way. 

"So  I  said:    *  There's  no  good 

Saving  it  for  a  burying-lot. 

I'll  brush  her  off  of  scrub 

And  put  her  down  in  winter  rye — 

Maybe  there's  something  in  this  talk 

About  taking  manure  from  the  air — 

Like  that  fellow  said. 

I  don't  know  where  else  we  can  get  it.'" 

F351 


And  so,  to-day, 

Dwight's  been  at  it. 

I've  been  watching  him 

From  my  window,  following  him 

Now  and  then  through  the  cold 

November  afternoon — at  his  sowing 

From  the  tin  pail 

In  the  crook  of  his  arm. 

Striding  and  swinging, 
Striding  and  swinging, 

Dip  and  scatter, 
Dip  and  scatter, 

Up  and  over, 
Up  and  over 

The  rim  of  the  hill. 

I  thought, 

Here's  something  for  the  philosophers — 

That  the  time  of  harvest 

Should  come  to  be 

The  time  of  sowing. 

When  it  was  time  for  Dwight  to  quit 
I  went  across  my  lot  to  his, 
And  up  the  hill,  keeping  to  the  edge 
Of  the  plowed  field. 

[36] 


I  wanted  to  hear  what  he'd  have 
To  say  about  the  philosophers 
If  I  should  ask  him. 

He  did  not  see  me 

There  by  the  edge  of  the  wood, 

So  that  I  could  stand  and  watch  him 

Swing  and  scatter!    Swing  and  scatter! 

Coming  toward  me. 

And  as  he  walked 

I  saw  him  slow  and  falter, 

And  then  he  stopped 

Ankle  deep — there  in  the  heavy  earth, 

With  the  pail  in  the  crook 

Of  his  arm,  and  his  head  down 

As  though  he  had  been  caught  in  a  spell 

Of  dizziness,  or  had  pulled 

His  shoulder  with  the  swing. 

"I  saw  you  stop,"  I  said. 
"And  I  wondered  if  the  old 
Trouble  had  come  back." 

But  he  shook  his  head  and  laughed, 
And  put  down  his  pail  and  sat  down 
There  beside  me  on  the  sycamore  log. 

"Time  to  quit  an  hour  ago," 
He  said.    "But  I  got  to  laughing 
[87] 


About  what  a  stranger  came  up  here 
To  say  to  me  along  about  noon. 
I  got  to  puzzling  over  what 
He  had  to  say,  and  let  the  time 
Slip  by — I  don't  know  when  I've 
Laughed  so  much,  or  laughed  so  hard. 
And  I  can't  tell  just  what  it  is 
I'm  laughing  at — can't  think  it 
Out  in  words,  and  so  I  have  to  stop 
And  laugh;  that's  what  I  was  doing 
When  you  saw  me." 

I  said,  "Who  was  he,  a  peddler?" 

Dwight  said: 

"He  didn't  just  call  himself  that — 
The  fact  is,  I  don't  know 
What  he  was  trying  to  be. 

"He  said  he  was  trying 

To  sell  me  to  myself! 

Maybe  you  can  make  something 

Out  of  that — I  can't. 

"He  said  he  could  explain — 

He  was  a  sort  of  politician — 

A  new  sort — because  he  didn't 

Give  me  one  of  the  cigars  he  was  smoking. 

"I  can't  tell  you  all  he  said. 
He  was  what  we  call  an  easy  talker, 
[38] 


And  he  said  he  wanted  to  be  able 
To  call  me  'Comrade'! 

"First  I  thought  he  meant  religion. 
Perhaps  he  was  a  Methodist — 
But  he  looked  from  foreign  parts — 
One  of  these  fellows  that  work  in  factories. 

"I  let  him  have  his  say. 

There's  something  you  have  to  listen  to 

When  a  man  thinks  you've  been  abused. 

"'How  long  you  been  working  to-day?'  he  asks. 
I  said:  'Since  sun-up.' 

"'And  when  do  you  quit?'  he  asks. 
'Sun-down,'  I  said. 

"'And  what  '11  you  get  for  it?'  he  asks. 
'I'm  after  manure  in  the  air,'  I  said. 

'"And  what  '11  you  get  for  that?'  he  asks. 
'Maybe  a  stand  of  corn  next  year,'  I  said. 

"'What  '11  that  be  worth?'  he  asked. 
'Whatever  God  Almighty 
Puts  into  the  rain,'  I  said. 

"He  laughed! 

'Who's  this  fellow  God  Almighty?'  he  asks. 

'Don't  you  have  religion?'  I  said. 

[39] 


"'What's  religion  ever  done  for  you?'  he  asks." 
'It  might  have  done  more 
If  I'd  done  more,'  I  said. 

("I'm  not  religious  except  when  I  hear 

It  getting  attacked  by  a  fellow  with 

A  black  cigar  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth.) 

"He  said: 

'God  Almighty's  for  the  rich. 

The  working-man  must  make  himself  a  God, 

With  no  Priest  and  no  Church  and  no  Giving. 

"'Don't  you  know,'  he  said, 

'Don't  you  know  there  ain't  no  God?' 

"He  said: 

'It's  just  a  Santa  Claus  story 

Like  you  used  to  tell  your  kid. 

The  rich  man  made  it  for  the  poor  man, 

And  they  keep  a  few  old  women  like 

These  priests,  around  the  chimney  corner, 

To  tell  us  children  to  be  good, 

And  say  our  prayers,  and  do  our  duty, 

And  fetch  and  carry  for  our  elders, 

Or  Santa  Claus  won't  stop  in  the  morning.' 

"I  said: 

'He  didn't  stop  here,  one  year! 
[40] 


The  summer  I  was  drunk 
And  didn't  get  the  hay  in.' 

"That  made  him  mad, 

And  he  got  up  and  brushed  himself — 

Mighty  particular  he  was  to  brush  himself- 

And  he  went  off  over  the  wall, 

Saying  something  in  his  language. 

If  it  had  been  in  English,  I  should  say 

He  was  calling  me  a  damned  fool. 

"That's  what  I've  been  laughing  at. 
What  did  he  mean — 
Selling  me  to  myself?" 
4 


WORDS  IN  PREFACE 

THE  letter  lies  on  my  table 
Just  as  I  left  it  a  day  or  so  ago, 
Half  torn  through  as  I  opened  it. 
You  can  see  the  ink  mark  of  my  thumb 
Over  the  publisher's  name  at  the  top, 
And  the  few  lines  of  blue  type 
With  the  smudged  erasures 
And  the  well-known  name  signed 
"Hastily  yours": 

It  reads: 

"We  should  like  a  short  anthology 

Of  verse — little  poems  of  comfort 

From  our  poets  of  to-day — 

For  the  countless  thousands 

Who  shall  mourn. 

Will  you  gather  them  together 

And  write  an  introduction? 

We  shall  call  the  volume, 

*  Comfort  Ye,  My  People!'" 

Here  is  the  introduction. 

Dear  Reader: 

Three  men  came  down  my  road 
Talking  of  things  that  men  talk  of 
When  the  furrow  is  run — 
Of  the  hogs  gone  with  the  cholera — 
1421. 


Of  the  corn  rotted  in  the  ground — 

Of  France! 

And  one  said: 

"Why  should  I  plow?" 

And  one  said: 

"Why  should  I  plant?" 

And  one  said: 

"I  think  it  is  the  last  day." 

But  I  called  to  them: 

"You  may  plow! 

You  may  plant! 

It  is  not  the  last  day! 

I  have  the  Great  Assurance!" 

Dear  reader,  I  find  it  here 

In  this  anthology. 

These  poems  which  I  have  culled 

Are  carefully  selected  from  your  friends, 

The  living  poets — 

Little  words  of  faith  and  hope 

To  comfort  and  sustain  you. 

Men  used  to  say 

That  poets  were  a  part  of  God's  Voice: 
I  cannot  tell; 

I  only  know  it  takes  a  long  time 
To  make  a  poet. 
Men  made  David  a  king 
But  God  made  him  a  poet 
[43] 


Because  He  knew  men  should  need  him 
When  the  Jews  were  through  with  him. 

No  one  knows  how  God  makes  poets. 
He  has  told  many  things,  but  this 
He  has  never  divulged. 

I  could  not  make  a  poet, 

But  I  could  whisper  something  to  Him 

Which  I  think  He  ought  to  know, 

When  He  is  making  poets  these  days. 

He  ought  to  sit  cross-legged 

Like  a  tailor 

Sewing  up  their  pockets 

Before  ever  they  are  born, 

So  that  they  cannot  be  business  men 

Or  make  automobiles 

Because  so  many  poets 

Crawl  into  their  pockets, 

And  no  matter  where  we  search 

We  cannot  find  them. 

But  I  hope  that  you 

Will  turn  the  pages  of  this  little  book 

Each  for  your  need  and  particular  fancy. 

That  you  may  be  comforted — 

Your  eyes  may  be  better  than  mine. 

You  shall  find  one 

Making  verses  to  his  mistress. 

[44] 


And  man  standing  at  his  machine, 

Certain  but  uncertain 

After  the  thousand  years 

As  to  which  shall  be  animate! 

And  one  is  ravished 
By  a  Japanese  fan. 

And  democracy  has  sent  itself  to  war 
Butcher  and  Baker  and  Candlestick-maker 
Burning  with  the  white  flame! 

And  one  is  making  rimes  to  Peace. 
A  poet  afraid  of  Death! 

And  one  is  fiddling  jig  tunes 

On  the  heartstrings  of  God  Almighty. 

And  ten  million  men  with  wide  eyes 
Over  No-man's  Land 
Trying  to  see — God! 

And  one  is  whimpering 
That  Christ  is  dead- 
Slain  by  the  hand  of  a  Hun. 

And  Jimmie  Handy, 
Who  used  tc  repair  motorcycles 
And  go  with  Susie  Turner 
[45] 


Every  Saturday  night — 
They  nailed  him  up 
With  the  cud  of  tobacco 
Stitt  in  his  cheek, 
The  Crucifixion  brought 
To  a  barn  door — 
Jimmie  Handy — 
So  that  men  might  have 
The  Everlasting  Life! 

Sometimes  I  think 

The  Lord  is  through  with  poets. 

Or  perhaps  He  has  changed  the  pattern; 

It  may  be  He  has  taken  to  making 

Them  into  college  professors. 

Perhaps  it's  Mr.  Wilson! 

But  you  know  how  people 

Would  laugh  at  that. 

A  poet  couldn't  be  some  one 

You  voted  for  in  a  barber  shop! 

So,  dear  reader, 
This  is  how  I  know 
It  is  not  the  last  day. 

The  last  day  will  have  a  poet. 

That  is  where  the  trumpet  will  come  in! 


[46J 


SIGNS 


I  THOUGHT  I'd  put  the  sign  up,  anyway. 
Some  of  those  artists  who  are  coming  up 
Through  here  might  take  a  notion  to  the  place. 

I'd  sort  of  like  to  see  an  artist  get  it; 
They  put  such  pretty  things  at  the  windows. 

Jule  sold  her  farm  last  week — just  this  way — 
Put  a  notice  on  the  gate-post. 
Funny,  isn't  it;  how  land  that  can't  raise 
Anything  else,  they'll  pay  real  high  for? 

But  then  Ed  says 

City  folk  don't  like  a  house  like  this — 
Right  on  the  road  where  every  one  can  see 
What  they're  about;  they  want  it  back  a  space. 

There's  such  a  thing  as  having 

Too  much  of  folks,  I  guess. 

We  used  to  say  their  welcome  wears  out. 

That's  why  a  roadside  site  detracts  from  value. 

I  don't  just  fancy  having  a  sign 
Clutter  up  the  yard  this  way; 
But  you  know  how  it  is  with  me. 
There's  no  need  of  my  hanging  on — 
Wearing  myself  out  keeping  it  up 
And  then  leaving  it  to  charity. 
[47] 


It  isn't  as  though 
I  was  ever  going  to  have  children. 
And  Ed  don't  take  to  farming  like  he 
Used  to  before  he  got  to  house-painting. 
He's  ailing  most  the  time,  now. 
Sometimes  I  think  he's  just  petering  out 
Right  here  before  my  very  eyes. 

If  there  was  anything 

Coming  on  after  us  it  would  be  different^ 

But  the  doctor  told  me  last  year. 

It  can't  ever  be! 

Oh,  I  know  when  I  done  it 
The  minute  Doctor  Cobb  says  it; 
I  could  remember  the  very  day — 
How  the  pain  came  down  through  me 
Here  in  my  back  and  in  my  leg. 

I  told  the  doctor 

Just  how  it  happened. 

I  said  to  Ma: 

"Ma,  something's  happened — 

I  ain't  feeling  just  right." 

But  you  know  how  she  was: 

Never  paying  attention 

To  anything  except  herself. 

"I  ain't  feeling  just  right," 
I  says,  trying  to  straighten  up 
148] 


By  holding  on  the  kitchen  door. 

But  there  she  sat,  and  she  says, 

"You  got  to  get  it  through,  Allie, 

You  got  to  get  it  through, 

So's  I  can  see. 

Seems  so  I'd  just  have  to 

See  through  that  door." 

I  let  it  stay  there, 
Just  where  I  got  stuck, 
Waiting  for  Ed  to  come  home. 

I  says: 

"Ma,  I'm  through!" 

Think  of  me  saying  that 
Ten  years  ago! 

You  know  how  it  was 

When  Ed  brought  me  here. 

Folks  told  me  there  was  erysipelas 

In  their  family. 

They  said  they'd  all  lay  down  on  me. 

Your  mother  used  those  very  words. 

Ed  always  held  it  against  her. 

I  can  see  it  now. 
There  his  mother  was 

Bringing  up  a  family  for  twenty-five  years, 
And  the  day  I  walked  into  the  house 
In  my  bridal  dress,  she  sits  down 
[49] 


In  that  rocking-chair  and  says 
She  can't  walk,  something  is  the  matter 
With  her  legs,  and  she  can't  walk, 
Can't  take  another  step,  not  a  step. 

And  so  I  took  off  my  dress 

And  got  supper; 

And  Ed  went  to  the  milking, 

And  we  toted  her  bed  down-stairs, 

And  set  it  up  in  the  side  room, 

And  we  dragged  her  to  it, 

And  back  again  the  next  morning, 

And  all  that  week, 

And  all  the  next  week, 

And  all  the  next  year, 

And  for  ten  years  after  that. 

Not  a  step  did  she  take, 
Just  sitting  there  finding  fault, 
Criticizing  me  and  everything  I  did, 
And  everything  I  said — 
Until  I  pretty  near  went  mad. 

Then  one  day 

She  says  she  can't  stand 

The  sitting-room  no  longer. 

Because  it  hurt  her  eyes 
Looking  at  the  same  thing 
All  the  time. 

[50] 


She  wants  I  should  move  the  stove 
Into  the  parlor  so  she  can  sit  in  there 
Where  her  eyes  won't  hurt. 

And  she  kept  at  me, 
And  she  kept  at  me, 
Until  I  couldn't  stand  it  no  longer. 

So,  one  day,  I  says, 

"I  guess  I've  got  to  do  it 

To  get  some  peace  around  here." 

So  I  up  and  took  the  pipe  down 

With  my  own  hands — a  dirty  job,  too. 

Ed  never  looked  after  things 

Like  he  ought,  even  then. 

And  I  began  to  drag 

And  to  haul  at  that  stove 

Until  I  had  it  almost  half-way 

Through  the  door — 

Then  it  was 

That  something  give  way. 

I  forget  what  the  doctor  called  it. 

But  it  give  way. 

He  found  it  soon  enough 

When  he  begun  to  poke  around  on  me. 

And  there  I  was 
Stuck  with  the  stove 

[51] 


Half-way  through  the  door. 

And  her  sitting  there 

Rocking  and  sniveling 

And  sniveling  and  rocking, 

And  she  keeps  saying, 

"Allie,  I  got  to  see  through; 

Seems  so  I  just  got  to  see  through." 

But  I  didn't  touch  a  hand  to  it. 

When  Ed  conies  home  he  says, 
"You  oughtn't  to  have  done  it, 
Allie;  you  oughtn't  to  have  done  it." 

And  then  him  and  Joe 
Moved  the  stove  through. 

I  thought  I'd  put  the  sign  up,  anyway. 


BOGWATER 

UPON  my  reading-table 

Lies  a  copy  of  the  country  paper. 

Looking  down  the  column  of  the  page, 

I  learn  the  topic  of  the  Woman's  Club 

This  week  will  be, 

"The  Unmarried  Woman — 

Her  Right  to  a  Child." 


At  my  window  the  summer  night 
Comes  down  upon  the  elm-trees. 
And  I  can  see  the  silhouette 
Of  Mary  Hedghes  passing  along 
The  country  road  on  her  way 
To  prayer-meeting  at  the 
Congregational  church. 


Tall  and  stiff  and  straight 

She  goes,  a  monotone  in  black — 

The  little  plain  hat, 

The  umbrella  under  her  arm — 

(Rain  or  shine) 

The  Bible  in  her  folded  hands — 

The  tight  pull  to  her  yellow-gray  hair- 

The  stern  set  of  her  face — 

The  steady,  measured, 

Clock-like  stride. 

[53] 


Those  who  come  in  motor-cars 

Point  to  Mary  Hedghes,  smile. 

And  turn  to  look  again, 

Chatting  idly  of  New  England  types, 

And  of  the  harsh  severities 

Of  the  Puritan  remnant. 

Chatting  idly — 

They  of  the  softer  breed — 

Crossed  with  lace  and  silk  stockings, 

And  the  brocade  motor — 

Three  generations  removed 

From  the  churning  hand, 

The  spring-house,  and  contented  hens 

Soft  pecking  on  warm  manure  piles. 

And  Mary  Hedghes 
On  her  way  to  prayer-meeting 
At  the  Congregational  church 
This  night  for  forty  years. 

I  do  not  know  why 

I  should  stand  and  follow  her, 

Or  why  this  strange  refrain 

Should  echo  through  my  ears 

Keeping  broken  measure  to  her  tread. 

One  foot! 
One  foot! 
One  foot  following  the  other! 

[54] 


One  foot! 
One  foot! 
One  foot  following  the  other! 

Steady  treading! 
Steady  treading! 

So! 

And  so! 
And  just  so! 

Thus  it  was 

She  found  Anne  Williams 

That  night  knee-deep  in  Bogwater, 

When  no  one  else  knew. 

One  foot! 
One  foot! 
One  foot  following  the  other! 

And  there  was  something 

She  said  to  her, 

Or  something  she  did  to  her, 

Or  was  it  what  she  did  not  say, 

Or  did  not  do  that  brought 

Anne  back  to  have  her  baby? 

But  Mary  Hedghes  never  went  about 
Begging  for  Anne's  transgression, 
Or  asking  us  to  send  old  baby  clothes 
Or  make  new  work. 
[55] 


Mary  Hedghes'  fingers 
Went  deeper  than  old  baby  clothes 
When  she  groped  in  festering  entrails 
To  find  the  parted  ends. 

To  find  the  parted  ends 
And  tie  them  tight — 
Tight  as  fiddle-strings. 

And  I  think  this  night 

Of  Anne  Williams'  man, 

Standing  in  the  battle-ditches 

With  wide  eyes  over  the  black  night, 

With  the  clutch  at  his  throat, 

And  the  white  chill  down 

Hip  and  knee  and  ankle. 

And  of  the  other  boys 

Of  her  Sunday-school  class — 

Jack  and  Rob  and  Amizi — 

Standing  there — 

Men  of  New  England — 

One  foot! 
One  foot! 
One  foot  following  the  other! 

So! 

And  so! 
And  just  so! 

[56] 


Steady  treading 
Steady  treading 

With  something  tied — 

Deep! 

Inside  of  them! 

Tight  as  fiddle-strings! 

The  topic  for  the  Woman's  Club 

This  week  will  be, 

"The  Unmarried  Woman — 

Her  Right  to  a  Child!" 

5 


THE  TABLE  WITH  THE  BANDY  LEGS 

TIMES  have  changed  around  here, 
But  not  that  much — 
No,  not  that  much. 

Brandon's  sent  that  foreigner 
Over  here  to  buy  my  table, 
The  one  with  the  bandy  legs. 
He  knows  good  mahogany 
When  he  sees  it. 
The  trouble  with  him  is 
He  doesn't  know  me. 

I've  heard  of  this  fellow  before 

With  his  barn  full  of  old  furniture. 

They  say  he  has  two  men 

(Foreigners  like  himself) 

Polishing  and  puttering  most  of  the  time 

And  then  carting  off  to  town  to  sell. 

It  was  just  like  little  Brandon 
Thinking  he  could  fool  me 
With  one  of  his  trading  tricks. 
Folks  say  that's  the  way  he 
Made  his  money  in  Wall  Street — 
Slick  tricks! 

One  day  he  came  riding  by 

On  his  circus  horse — pure  Arabian 

[58] 


The  paper  says  it  is,  and  it  looks 

Like  an  animal  in  a  fairy-story — 

The  one  the  prince  rides — 

I  never  saw  one  like  it  outside 

Of  Mr.  Barnum's  show  at  Bridgeport. 

He  saw  my  water-bucket  standing 

On  the  table  and  he  got  off  to 

Get  a  drink,  or  so  he  said. 

I  saw  him  eye  it 

Standing  there  a-straddle  in  his 

Riding-breeches  and  swinging  up  and 

Down  on  his  toes. 

He  didn't  make  a  fit  figure  for  a  horse — 

His  eyes  were  too  greedy. 

I  took  a  look  at  him  and  I  said: 

"It  ain't  for  sale; 

I  got  to  have  some  place 

To  keep  the  water-bucket." 

I  thought  that  would  quiet  him, 

But  here  he  sends  this  dark-complexioned  peddler 

With  a  catalogue  under  his  arm, 

From  a  Grand  Rapids  furniture  emporium. 

It  was  made  in  colors 

Red  and  blue  and  yellow; 

Some  of  it  was  real  pretty. 

I  could  see  they  were  making 

Furniture  different  now, 

Just  as  he  said. 

And  he  had  a  book  of  coupons 

[59] 


With  a  fountain-pen  ready 
For  me  to  sign  my  name. 

He  wanted  to  give  me  an  order 
For  a  brand-new  piece  of  furniture 
From  the  catalogue,  and  I  could 
Make  my  choice  within  the  value 
All  he  asked  was  that  old  clap-trap 
Under  the  water-bucket — that  and 
My  name  signed  to  the  paper. 

I  was  slow  at  first, 
Didn't  seem  to  see 
Little  Brandon  standing  there 
And  talking  through  this  critter's  tongue. 
He  was  so  polite  and  poor-looking, 
I  thought  maybe  I'd  let  him 
Take  it  along — what  there  was  left  of  it. 
No  use  holding  on  to  it; 
It  wasn't  worth  anything, 
And  he'd  just  keep  pestering  me 
Until  he  carted  it  away. 
But  I  thought  I'd  have  my  say,  first; 
You  know  how  a  woman  will  sometimes — 
And  I  said:     "I  know  what  sent  you  here 
Through  this  part  of  Connecticut. 
Some  one  wrote  a  piece  once 
And  put  it  in  a  magazine  telling 
How  this  county  still  had  some 
Old  mahogany  that  could  be  had 
[60] 


For  little  or  nothing;  picked 

Up  for  a  song  was  the  way  she  said  it. 

And  I  said  then:     'There,  now  she's 

Done  it,  now  the  pestering 

Will  begin  just  like  it  did 

Down  Greenwich  way  when  they 

Had  the  craze  for  our  old  stuff.' 

I've  been  watching  you 

With  your  wagon  carting 

Past  here  almost  every  day 

With  something  you  picked  up, 

And  I  knew  it  wouldn't  be  long 

Before  you  came  to  my  door." 

And  then,  I  don't  know 

What  it  was  possessed  me. 

I  said,  "That  table's  been  spoken  for. 

Mr.  Brandon  stopped  last  week, 

Said  he  wanted  it  for  that 

Million-dollar  house  they  say 

He's  building  up  along  the  ridge — 

Said  he'd  pay  real  handsome  for  it,  too." 

I  think  it  was  the  way 
The  foreigner  closed  his  eyes  to  keep  me 
From  seeing  what  was  going  on 
That  made  me  suspicious 
He  wouldn't  say  it  was  Brandon 
And  he  wouldn't  say  it  wasn't. 
But  I  sent  him  off  without  particulars. 
[61] 


I  told  him  I  guessed  I'd  keep 
The  table  with  the  bandy  legs — 
Something  had  to  hold  the  water-bucket. 

I  got  to  thinking  after  he'd  gone 

I'd  heard  my  mother  say 

How  she  had  worked  and  skimped 

For  seven  years 

To  buy  that  table. 

For  seven  years — 

Wishing  and  wishing 

And  skimping — 

Going  by  on  a  circus  horse — 
And  wanting,  ain't  getting! 

There's  been  too  much  of  that  going  on. 
Times  have  changed  around  here, 
But  not  that  much. 
No,  not  that  much. 


WAITING  FOR  THE  REAL-ESTATE  MAN 

Scene — The  kitchen  of  an  old  Connecticut  farm-house. 
Elderly  man  and  woman  sitting  before  stove. 

Time — An  early  spring  day,  with  the  rain  on  the  win- 
dows. 
The  man  speaks  first. 

HE:    What  I  don't  understand  is 

Why  he  always  talks  the  Sound  view 
When  he  brings  them  up  here. 
We  never  set  much  store  by  that. 

SHE:  I  always  liked  to  see  it 

On  a  summer  morning  when 
We  went  to  get  the  cows — 
Just  that  blue  coming  up 
The  orchard  like  the  ribbon 
On  a  little  girl's  bonnet. 

HE:    And  them  old  scrub  cedars — 
He  never  misses  a  chance  to 
Point  them  out  on  the  side-hill. 
He  must  know  that  cedars  won't  grow 
Where  anything  else  can  get  roothold. 

SHE:  That's  why  I  always  fancied  them — 
Coming  up  so  friendly  and  standing 
There,  winter  and  summer, 
Rain  and  shine — 

HE:    Couldn't  get  rid  of  them. 

[63] 


SHE:  Their  little  ones 

Kept  coming  on  and  on 
Up  the  side-hill 
Until  they  almost  reached 
The  back  door. 

HE:    And  them  fireplaces! 

What's  all  the  fuss  about  them? 
We  boarded  'em  up  quick  enough 
Soon  as  we  could  get  a  stove. 
What  're  they  good  for? 

SHE:  That's  where  they're  smarter. 
'Tain't  enough  just  to  have 
A  room  het  and — 

HE:    Now  don't  get  to  carrying  on 

With  that  stuff  that  has  no  sense. 
You  know  I  don't  like  it. 

SHE:  I'm  getting  so  old 
I  can't  tell 

What  is  sense  any  more. 
'Tain't  what  I  thought  it  was. 
I  know  that. 

HE:    What's  that  got  to  do 

With  what  I'm  talking  about? 

SHE:  It's  what  you  said 
About  fireplaces. 
[64] 


HE:    What  'd  I  say? 

SHE:  About  their  being  no  use. 

HE:    No,  they  ain't. 

(There  is  the  sound  of  a  motor  en  the  highway. 
He  gets  up  and  in  an  expectant  attitude  goes  to 
the  window.  He  pulls  the  curtain  aside  to  look 
through  the  rain.  She  watches  him  for  a  moment 
in  a  little  flutter  of  irresolution.  Then,  with  a 
visible  effort,  she  summons  her  courage  and 
speaks — at  first,  falteringly.) 

SHE:  I — I  suppose  it  'd  fret  you 
If  I  come  out  with  it,  Will? 
B-but  I  had  been  a-holding 
And  a-holding  it — 
Ever  since  that  first  night 
We  drove  up  here  from  the  parsonage. 
Do  you  want  I  should  tell  you,  Will? 

HE:    What  you  been  keeping  from  me? 

SHE:  You  recollect  it,  Will. 
How,  when  we  got  here 
Mrs.  Purdy  had  the  fire  burning 
And  the  table  all  set. 
I  can  see  just  how  it  looked, 
When  we  come  in  the  door — 
The  fire  in  the  chimney, 
And  the  doughnuts 
In  the  blue  bowl. 

[65  j 


HE:    She  puttered  around  too  late 

That  night,  hanging  on,  and  hanging  on — 
I  always  held  it  against  her. 

SHE-  That's  what  I'm  coming  to — 
That's  what  I'm  coming  to. 
When  she  was  through  washing  the  dishes, 
It  was  real  late,  wasn't  it? 
And  when  she  was  gone,  you  said: 
"I  guess  I'll  turn  in  first, 
And  you  can  come  when  you  get  to  it." 
Do  you  remember,  Will? 
And  I  sat  here  before  the  fireplace, 
Here  I  sat,  I  recollect, 
Hearing  you  pulling  at 
Your  new  boots — you  had 
A  fuss  with  them. 
And  here  I  sat. 
You  know  how  it  is,  Will, 
When  you  get  to  setting 
Before  a  fire  seeing  what 
You're  going  to  do  to-morrow. 

(She  leans  toward  him — her  face  in  a  warm  and 
half-bashful  light.) 

I  couldn't  have  told  you  then,  Will; 

I  couldn't  have  told  you  then — 

But  as  I  sat  there, 

Just  as  sure  as  you  are  setting  here, 

I  saw  a  little  girl's  face — 

A  little  girl's  face — 

[66] 


Something  like  yours 

And  something  like  my  father's — 

Favored  his  eyes  and  smiled  like  him, 

And  she  had  his  way  of 

Being  honest  around  the  forehead. 

HE-    If  it  wasn't  a  boy 

I'm  glad  it  wasn't  nothing. 

Such  talk  don't  seem  fit,  anyway — 

'Tain't  moral  to  talk  it  right  out. 

SHE:  It  was  boarding  it  up 
That  killed  me,  Will. 
I  never  said  a  word. 
Because,  then,  I  didn't 
Think  it  was  sense. 

But,  Will,  I  knew 
When  you  and  George  come  in 
With  them  planks  and  begin 
To  saw  and  to  hammer — 
Recollect  how  I  said, 
"I  guess  I'll  go  over  to 
Jane  Swively's  for  a  spell"? 
Did  you  ever  guess  why,  Will? 
Did  you  ever  guess  why? 

Maybe  it  was  my  head  then, 
Like  it  is  now;  but  when  you 
Got  to  hammering — every  time 
The  hammer  struck,  something 
[67] 


Got  to  saying — keeping  time — 
"They're  nailin'  her  in 
So  she  can't  come  out! 

"They're  nailin'  her  in 
So  she  can't  come  out! 

"So  she  can't  ever 
Come  out  no  more! 

"So  she  can't  ever,  ever — " 

(She  is  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  a  second 
motor  in  the  distance.  The  man  drops  the  cur- 
tain and  walks  to  mirror  on  side  wall  to  slick  up 
his  hair.) 

HE:    There  they  are  now! 

I  can  hear  Merl's  old  Ford 

Turning  the  hill. 

He  never  will  learn  to  manage  it — 

Keeps  fretting  it 

Like  he  did  his  horse. 

SHE:  I'll  run  into 

The  next  room 
So  they  won't  see 
I  been  fussing. 

(Before  she  can  go  voices  are  heard  outside.) 

[68] 


FIRST  VOICE:       Pull  the  car  up  'side  the  road 
Under  this  old  sycamore. 

SECOND  VOICE:    There's  a  better  view 

Of  the  house  from  here — 
Who's  got  an  umbrella? 

FIRST  VOICE:       How's  it  suit  you? 

SECOND  VOICE:    Pretty  well  run  down. 
How  old  did  you  say? 

FIRST  VOICE:       Some  say  a  hundred  and  fifty. 

SECOND  VOICE:    What's  the  idea 

Of  those  two  big  pines 

Standing  there  either  side  the  front 

door? 

I'd  rip  them  out  first  thing. 
Too  much  like  a  cemetery  for  me. 

FIRST  VOICE.       Yes,  city  folks  seem  to  feel  that  way. 
You'll  find  most  of  them 
Dooryard  trees  cleaned  out 
Around  here  nowadays. 
Ain't  much  sentiment  in  folks  any 
more. 

Used  to  be  when  a  couple 
Took  up  housekeeping 
[69] 


They'd  plant  two  trees 

Before  the  door — 

One  for  each  of  them — 

And  then  when  the  kids  come  on, 

Each  time,  they'd  plant 

A  new  one,  until  they  had  them 

Clean  down  to  the  road 

SECOND  VOICE:    Only  two  of  them  here! 
Somebody  get  tired? 

(Coarse,  boisterous  laughter  and  snig- 
gering.) 

FIRST  VOICE:       As  the  old  nigger  said, 
"Ah  reckon  de  old  cow 
Don'  gone  dry!" 

(Coarse,  boisterous  laughter  and  snig- 
gering.) 


(CURTAIN.) 


GRAVESTONES 

THE  Burying  Ground 
Lies  on  the  topmost  hill. 

It  used  to  be  hard 

On  the  farm  horses — 

Six  and  seven  to  the  surrey. 

But  now  they  take  it 
A  little  easier 
With  their  Fords. 

I  suppose  it  all 

Amounts  to  the  same  thing 

In  the  end. 

It  seems  to  be 
Slowly  filling  up. 

When  I  was  young 
And  took  the  back  road 
Home  from  school, 
We  used  to  stop  here 
In  the  spring, 
To  pick  myrtle, 
\nd  to  play 
Hide-and-seek 
Behind  the  stones. 
[71] 


I  spy! 

And  you  spy! 

And  within  the  shadow 
Of  every  sunken  grave 
Red  lips,  and  blue  eyes, 
And  scurrying  feet, 
Quick  tears, 
And  quick  forgetting, 
And  girls'  laughter. 

But  now, 
When  I  go  by 
I  say: 

"I  wonder  why 

They  never  cut  the  grass?' 


LILAC-TIME 

GEORGE  HERRICK  is  a  stolid  man, 
His  neighbors  say. 

He  does  not  sing  or  laugh 
Or  listen  to  the  rain. 

He  lets  his  sign-board 
Do  the  talking. 

It  swings  both  ways 
To  the  road  and  pinches 
With  its  gray,  cracked  lips 
These  cautious  words. 

Money  to  lend 

On  Bond  and  Mortgage. 

I  sometimes  wonder 

Why  it  is 

That  almost  every  man 

Who  passes  by  his  house 

Mumbles  with  the  off-side  corner 

Of  his  mouth  and  strikes  out 

With  his  whip. 

They  say  he  is  not 

Human  flesh — or  fowl. 

And  they  whisper  lewd  things 

[73] 


Of  his  mother,  telling  how 
She  dropped  him  early 
Like  a  rotten  toad 
Upon  the  road. 
I've  heard  the  talk 
A  hundred  times, 
And  so  have  you. 

And  often,  when  at  dusk 

On  winter  nights 

I've  seen  him  sitting 

At  his  window 

Working  his  accounts, 

I've  tried  to  fancy 

How  a  man  must  feel 

Who  cannot  see  his  neighbors 

Passing  by  except  he  make 

A  check  mark  in  his  book. 

But  then — 

I  cannot  tell, 

I  do  not  know 

If  this  be  all  the  truth 

Or  even  half  of  what 

I  should  have  told. 

For  when,  this  evening, 
In  the  rain,  I  passed  his  house, 
I  found  him  in  the  dooryard 
In  his  gingham  sleeves— 

[74] 


Thin  and  gaunt  and  bent — 
Hacking  at  his  lilac-bushes 
With  a  broken  hatchet. 

I  stopped  to  ask  him  why, 
And  he  said: 

"The  damned  things 

Reach  out  in  the  wind 

And  scratch  upon  my  window-pane!" 


HAUNTED  HOUSES 

THE  haunted  house 
Upon  my  road 
Is  neither 
Red  nor  white. 

It  has 

No  shutters 

Barred  upon  a  mystery. 

No  cedar-trees 
With  shadows 
Lying  on  the  night. 

But  sometimes 
When  I  ride 
And  all  my  neighbors' 
Lamps  are  still, 

I  hear  a  Voice! 

And  then  I  say, 
"I  guess  it  must 
Have  been  the  wind!" 


DOOR-STEPS 

A  DOOR-STEP 

Should  be  made 
To  face  the  West. 

So  that 
When  a  man 
Is  through, 

He  can  sit 

And  watch  the  sun  go  down 

And  say: 

"Go  along 
With  you! 
My  job's  done!" 


I  AM  A  TINKER 

I  AM  a  tinker. 

I  fix  up  old  things — 

Patch  and  solder  and  mend, 

And  putter  about  folks'  back  doors 

For  odds  and  ends 

They  have  thrown  away. 

I  cannot  make  new  things. 
There's  something  lacking,  somewhere. 
People  say  a  tinker's  nothing 
But  a  fool  with  a  little 
Cunning  added  to  his  hand. 

If  I  had  the  head 

That  was  meant  to  go 

With  my  hands 

I  might  make  something  new. 

But  perhaps  it's  just  as  well. 
God  must  have  known 
What  He  was  about, 
Because  there  are 
So  many  folks  these  days 
Who  can  make  new  things. 

I  find  them  almost  everywhere 
When  I  go  into  a  new  town 
And  blow  my  horn 

[78] 


They  all  come  running  out 
To  see  if  I  have 
Something  new  to  sell. 

But  when  they  find 
That  I  am  just  a  tinker, 
Looking  here  and  there 
For  old  things  to  mend, 
They  laugh  and  curse 
And  stone  me  out  of  town. 

They  shout: 

"He  would  mend  old  things! 

Fix  them  up  with  putty  and  solder! 

"Patch  the  jug 
To  hold  new  wine! 

"Splice  a  crutch 

For  a  cripple  that  is  dead!" 

And  they  spit  upon  the  marks 
My  feet  have  left. 

And  they  turn 
And  hurry  back, 
Stumbling  madly 
On  each  other's  heels, 
Each  to  his  little  shop, 
Fearing  lest  his  neighbor 
[79] 


Make  his  new  thing  first 
And  sell  it  before  the  paint 
And  varnish  are  quite  dry. 

But  I  go  on 

About  my  way 

To  patch  and  mend 

And  putter  about  back  doors 

For  odds  and  ends 

That  folks  have  thrown  away — 

Old  junk! 

And  new  junk! 

That  I  take  in 

Now  and  then 

From  the  rain — 

Stuff  that  nobody  wants 
Because  they  think 
It's  all  worn  out 
And  served  its  day — 
Or  else,  they  are  just  sick 
From  seeing  it  around. 

So 

I  put  it  away 

And  keep  it. 

Some  day, 

I  know, 

That  in  the  long  swing 

[80] 


Of  my  circuit, 

When  I  shall  come  again 

Along  this  road, 

These  folks  will  come  back  to  me 

With  money  in  their  hands 

To  buy  old  things. 

Then  I  shall  charge  them 
A  round  sum,  indeed. 
Who  can  tell? 
It  may  be  the  price 
Of  immortality. 

Perhaps, 

After  all, 

It  is  only 

The  old  men 

Who  know 

Why  God  makes  tinkers. 


PEAS  PORRIDGE  HOT 

You  sit  there, 
And  I  sit  here, 
And  we  shall  play 
At  peas  porridge  hot. 

You  on  your  stool 

And  I  on  mine, 

And  so,  between  us, 

Who  knows, 

We  may  find 

An  answer  to  this  nursery  nonsense. 

"For  some  like  it  hot 
And  some  like  it  cold, 
And  some  like  it  in  the  pot, 
Nine  days  old." 

That's  about  \ 

All  there  is  to  it — 

A  very  simple  game 

When  once  you  learn  the  tune, 

And  just  how  to  cross  the  hands. 

But  there  are  men 

I  find 

Who  will  not  play 

At  such  a  foolish  thing. 

[82] 


They'd  rather  sit 

Upon  a  stool 

All  by  themselves, 

And  chew  their  finger-nails 

And  make  a  new  game. 

I  know  that  they 

Get  very  cross  with  me 

Because  I  seem 

To  think  that  somehow 

A  good  game 

Still  seems  to  need 

You  on  your  stool 
And  me  on  mine. 

You  sit  there 
And  I  sit  here. 

And  so, 
Between  us, 
We  shall  find: 

"'That  some  like  it  hot 
And  some  like  it  cold, 
And  some  like  it  in  the  pot, 
Nine  days  old." 


THE  ELEVEN  FORTY-FIVE  IS  LATE 

REYBURN  took  me  to  the  station 
But  he  could  not  wait  to  see  me  off 
Because  the  switchman  said 
The  eleven  forty-five  was  late. 

Reyburn  could  not  waste  his  time 
Loafing  around  a  country  depot — 
It  was  dead — 
There  wasn't  anything  to  see. 

He  didn't  mind,  so  much, 

Losing  ten  minutes, 

Now  and  then, 

In  city  terminals. 

You  could  get  some  life  there — 

Sort  of  stand  off 

And  catch  a  notion  about 

Your  particular  breed  of  herring. 

A  man 

Calling  out  the  names 
Of  almost  every  place 
In  almost  every  corner  of  the  land. 
There  was  the  thing 
To  put  an  edge 
On  a  fellow's  imagination. 
[84] 


Red  Bank,  White  Horse,  Painted  Post, 
Ellenville,  and  Pleasant  Valley, 
Richmond,  Charleston,  and  New  Orleans, 
Kansas  City,  Denver,  and  the  Golden  Gate, 
All  aboard  for  the  Montreal  Express! 

Italians,  Russians,  and  Chinamen, 

Preachers,  lawyers,  and  Congressmen, 

Actresses  with  their  aunts, 

A  dark  detective  waiting 

Behind  a  post, 

A  wedding  party  going  through, 

A  fat  man  with  the  gate  shut  in  his  face, 

A  nigger  at  the  soda-fountain 

Eating  white  ice-cream. 

"That's  the  sort  of  thing 
That  gives  a  man  a  notion 
What  the  world  is  like." 

So  Reyburn  took  to  his  motor, 

And  when  he  had  gone 

I  sat  down  on  a  keg  of  nails 

Thinking  of  herring, 

But  of  no  particular  breed. 

On  the  siding 

Of  the  one-track  road 

Stood  a  shuttle  train, 

With  an  idly  puffing  engine, 

185] 


Waiting  for  the  eleven  forty-five. 

And  in  the  open  doorway 

Of  the  baggage-car, 

A  little  ox-eyed  man 

In  his  dirty  shirt-sleeves, 

Sitting  on  a  white-pine  casket  box 

Eating  a  banana — 

Peeling  it  down  slowly, 

Like  the  petals  of  a  lily. 

Peeling  it  down  slowly, 

An  ox-eyed  man, 

Stopping  now  and  then 

To  swallow  with  a  slow 

Side-pulling  of  his  throat. 

On  the  platform, 
Shaded  by  the  roof 
Of  corrugated  tin, 
A  dressed  hog 
With  his  four  feet 
Braced  in  the  air. 

A  pregnant  woman 

Weighing  a  little  girl 

On  a  penny  slot  machine, 

A  whining  child, 

Sucking  on  a  purple  taffy. 

A  fussy,  important-looking  man 

Holding  his  watch  in  his  hand 

And  shading 'his  eyes  down  the  track. 

[86] 


So  we  waited. 

And  the  pig  lay 

With  his  feet  in  the  air, 

And  the  little  girl 

Sucked  on  her  purple  taffy, 

And  the  important  man 

Shaded  his  eyes  down  the  track. 

And  on  us  all 

The  benign  countenance 

Of  the  ox-eyed  little  man 

Sitting  in  his  shirt-sleeves 

On  the  white-pine  casket  box 

Peeling  a  banana 

Like  the  petals  of  a  lily — 

Slowly  chewing — 


THE    END 


•  '""in  llllllllif  ill 


